


I Know a Bank Where the Wild Thyme Blows

by EysabellePerfume



Series: Quick Bright Things [3]
Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Angst, Big Fat Delirium-Sex Cop-Out, Budapest, Doomed Relationship, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt People Hurting Each Other, I Keep Changing the Damned Tags, Ignored Safeword, Interrogation, Jealousy, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, May/December Relationship, Sexual Coercion, newlyweds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-08 13:05:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14106012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EysabellePerfume/pseuds/EysabellePerfume
Summary: It had to have been a case of collective insanity - Everett for proposing it, Shuri for accepting it, and T'Challa for allowing it. What do you do when you awaken from a dream of love and discover the real world still exists? - Or - "One Does Not Simply Marry the Princess of Wakanda." Sequel to "Fixing a White Boy" and "Nesibindi." Shuri is 24. Bear with me here.





	1. Chapter 1

It was in Budapest where they at last came to their senses.

It happened first to Everett. He awoke that morning with the first light, not knowing where or when he was. Lying next to him, sunk into a meringue of goose-down comforters and more pillows than any reasonable human being could possibly need, was a slender young black woman, splendidly nude, her fists pulled up to her mouth, her eyelashes lush against her skin, her sleeping breath sweet and steady. At first, when Everett didn't know her, he panicked. Then, when he did know her, his panic nearly knocked the breath from his body.

She was Princess Shuri of Wakanda, a girl half his age, a girl he'd known less than three weeks, a girl who was his superior in rank and intellect, and a girl who was, by the authority of a Priest of Wakanda and the Standesamt of Vienna, his wife.

He rubbed his hands over his face and throttled a dismayed groan into a sigh. He got out of the bed quietly, so as not to wake her, went into the bathroom, and turned on the cold water tap. He splashed icy water over his face, drank more from his cupped hands, stared at his dripping reflection in the mirror.

God, he looked old, and tired, and an utter fool. His head ached as if with a hangover. And he had been on a bender, hadn't he? A sexual bender, more potent than any drink or drug. And what of that little fairy, sound asleep in that ridiculous pile of goose-down? Was she the belle dame sans merci, or was she a hapless Titania enamoured, through trickery, with a monster? For at that moment Everett was not inclined to think very charitably of himself or his behavior.

"At least you don't have the head of an ass," he muttered to his reflection. "But what in the hell are you going to do now?"

Shave. He could shave. He lathered his face as if his life depended on it and began to methodically scrape two days' stubble from his cheeks and chin. Focus. Focus on this ordinary, necessary task. You've done this thousands of times. And then he thought of his superiors. Why hadn't they contacted him? Why hadn't they brought him in? They knew where he was. The whole fucking world knew where he was. The press loves a princess. The press especially loves a princess in love.

He nicked himself and hissed with pain. Watching the blood run watery and stain the lather on his face, he felt a flash of gratitude. Such an ordinary wound brought him back to himself. Finish the job. Shower. Dress. Become normal. And get the hell out of this hotel room.

And do it before she awakens.


	2. Chapter 2

_In which the author demonstrates that she knows_ literally _nothing about the workings of the CIA, but tries to fake it anyway._

* * *

He walked the awakening streets of Budapest, shivering in the early spring air. It had been nearly a week since King T'Challa's address to the UN, since Shuri's demonstration of the hover-scooter, since their elopement and civil marriage ceremony. Nearly a week of different cities - Vienna to Bratislava, Bratislava to Graz, Graz to Budapest - different hotel rooms, different beds. Shuri was nearly as voracious a tourist as she was a lover. She also courted the press like a true flirt, dropping hints about her projects while protesting that her honeymoon was for play and not work. And how generous she was with the mobs of people who wanted selfies with her! She posed with gusto, even during meals, and seemed to think it no interruption.

Because it was all right when night came on, after all, when they took turns leading each other through a labyrinth of dark games too secret, too primal to be spoken of.

 _I've been living in a dream_ , he thought, _and nobody came to awaken me_.

 _And somebody_ should _have come._

He walked to the US Embassy. As a courtesy, they ought to give him phone and computer access. He could contact his superiors in Berlin and brace himself for the chewing out he'd most certainly receive. But when he surrendered his CIA credentials to the massive Marine on security detail, the Marine glanced at them and did a subtle double-take. Controlling his face, he handed the credentials back to Everett.

"I'm sorry, sir. You'll need to leave."

"I'll need to _what_?"

"Leave, sir. The premises, sir."

"By whose authority?"

"The Secretary of State, sir."

"Thaddeus Ross?"

"That's correct, sir."

Stunned, Everett turned and walked out. This was bad. This was really bad. He walked until he found one of a hundred or more storefront shops that sold used cell phones and bought one. Then he went into the nearest coffee house and ordered coffee in his passable Hungarian. The waiter didn't bat an eyelash. He was just another foreign guy in a suit and sunglasses. It was Shuri who made him stand out.

He started calling his contacts. The ones he could reach hung up at the sound of his voice. Feeling sick at the pit of his stomach, he dialed the number of Sharon Carter in Berlin. If she hung up on him ...

"How's Budapest?" she asked, dry irony in her voice.

"Sharon. Thank God. Talk to me. Tell me what the hell is going on."

"I'm surprised you have to ask. Listen, in an ordinary world, I'd catch hell from everybody from the Director to the janitor if they found out I was talking to you. But this isn't an ordinary world. I've been given a message for you. You're burned."

"I'm _what_?"

"Burned. As in toast, with a capital 'T'"

"What do you mean, I'm burned? I'm not an asset, for fuck's sake."

"Yeah, no, you really are. You became an asset the moment you said 'I do' to the Princess of Wakanda. And now you're toast. Your CIA credentials and a thousand Forint might buy you a cheap cup of coffee. You'll be lucky if your US passport isn't revoked, too."

"Jesus."

"What did you honestly expect? You have any idea of how massive a threat Wakanda poses to US security? With the tech they've got? And they've tied you up but good. They'll have you whispering state secrets as pillow talk."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

"I know it. Of course I know it. But the brass? I'm sorry, Ross. I really am. You're the best agent I know, and I'm not just saying that because you used to sign my paycheck. Losing you is huge, and they know it. We're talking blood-gushing wound huge. But Wakanda is too big a risk. They're the space brothers. Do they come in peace, or are they going to take over the world?"

"Weren't they paying attention to King T'Challa's speech?"

"Now you're just being naive. Enjoy your celebrity, because that's all you've got now. And send me your address in Wakanda. I've got a nice toaster to send you as a wedding present. Everybody chipped in."

And she hung up.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"Vigyázz a nyelvedre!" scolded an old woman at the next table.


	3. Chapter 3

Shuri awoke from a dream that she was being devoured by a giant Kaiserschmarrn and found herself sunk in a pile of pillows and comforters. She reached for him, with no specific idea of who he was, and found his place in the bed empty and cold. With the panic of the half-dreaming, she struggled to sit up, knocking pillows aside, and stared at the hotel room without recognizing it. It was cold and quiet, and she knew she was alone. She knew she had been alone for quite some time. Still, she called his name softly.

"Ev?"

Her voice disappeared into a man-shaped absence.

_He has gone to bring me coffee. He has gone to read the newspapers. He has gone to buy me the dress I admired in the window of that boutique._

Then, simply, _he has gone. Without_ me.

The nerves in her forearms prickled, a physical reaction to shock. With a sigh of self-disgust, she got out of bed and went into the bathroom. There was his razor on the side of the sink. A few whiskers clung to the bowl of the sink, high up. He'd shaved in a hurry then, for he was always so meticulous about rinsing the bowl, putting the razor away. She picked up the razor, then fumbled it. In catching it, she managed to slice her forefinger on the blade. Swearing, she set the razor down quickly and stared at the bloom of blood. When she glanced up at her reflection, she flinched in recognition.

"What are you doing?" she whispered urgently. "What have you done?"

Qualms cramped her stomach and her skin grew slick with cold sweat. She dropped into a crouch and bent her head, fighting off the dizziness and the nausea. When she felt she could, she rose and drank cold water from the tap. She showered quickly and dressed with a sense of urgency, as if trying to gain distance from the immovable fact that she had married a stranger.


	4. Chapter 4

She realized she was alone in a country of strangers. But not alone ... the Dora Milaje who accompanied them wherever they went, and who stood sentry outside the hotel room, were of her home and of her people. She opened the door to greet them.

They weren't there. Standing guard in their place were a pair of white men in suits. They glanced at her and nodded. She stared at them, stunned, then slammed the door shut and locked it. Who were they? Americans? Hungarians? Were they CIA agents summoned by Ev? She was genuinely too frightened to open the door and ask.

She took up her Kimoyo beads from the bedside table and tapped to connect with her brother.

"Access Denied."

Rationalizations flitted through her mind. He was in an important meeting. He was playing with Nakia. He was training, or sleeping, or hunting in the woods. None of her rationalizations, though, made sense of that stark "Access Denied."

Her mother, then. She tapped for Queen Ramonda.

"Access Denied."

Okoye.

"Access Denied."

Her colleagues at the lab, one after the other.

"Access Denied."

She thought of her research. The qualm in her stomach reasserted itself. She was denied access to her files, as well. What terrible attack had taken place to bring down the whole communications web of Wakanda? Was that why the Dora Milaje were gone? Had they been called back home? And where was Ev? He must know something! He should have woken her. He should have told her.

At that moment, she received notification of an incoming communication. Nakia! Thank Bast somebody was contacting her.

"Nakia! What's going on? I couldn't get in touch with anybody."

Nakia, her image projected in the air, looked at Shuri with both embarrassment and pity. "Oh, Princess Shuri. You have been cut out."

Cut out. What a dreadful phrase that was. To be cut out was to be excised from Wakanda, as if a tumor being excised from the body. It was to be rejected and expelled as something dangerous.

"What are you talking about?" Shuri said. Her voice shook. "I am the Princess of Wakanda. I am ... I am the sister of the King. How can I be cut out? What have I done to be cut out?"

"T'Challa tried to stop it. You must understand this. He argued for hours. But the tribal elders would not be swayed. You have married an outsider. You have rejected the five tribes and married the agent of a hostile government. You, Wakanda's greatest mind, have put yourself at risk, and have put the whole of Wakanda at risk."

Shuri was furious. "Mother argued for this marriage! You argued for this marriage! Good PR, you said. Human interest! We were to be symbols! We were to humanize the union of Wakanda with the world. Was this a lie, Nakia? Was it?"

"No, Shuri. Please, please be calm. I know this is hard, but you must be calm. We did not lie. We would never lie. We simply did not account for the force of the blowback against this marriage. We were naive. And yes, we were carried away. As were you, Shuri. As were you."

"Have you considered," Shuri said, cold now, "that I could take Wakanda's greatest mind to the country of my husband and work for his hostile government?"

"We have. But there is not much you can do without your research. And there is nothing you can do without vibranium."

Shuri's shoulders hunched. "What am I to do, Nakia?"

"Be patient," Nakia said, her voice kind. "T'Challa still fights on your behalf. All is new, Shuri ... our international relations, our internal politics, must all adjust to these immense changes."

"And in the meantime I am hung out to dry," Shuri said bitterly. "Bast! He is King! He can _make_ them do his will!"

"He is King," Nakia said, "but he is not a dictator. Princess Shuri, I must go. When we disconnect your Kimoyo beads will go dead. I am so sorry. Wakanda forever."

Shuri would not repeat the phrase.


	5. Chapter 5

He was used to having the coolest head in the room. He never let it be personal, never let it be about ego. Moving around powerful people had taught him the dangers of both. Observe, analyze, think quickly and objectively. Be what you are needed to be, when you're needed, and be clear-eyed enough to know when you're not. And even if you aren't in control of a situation, always be in control of yourself.

And then he met Shuri.

He allowed himself to be dazzled by her. He allowed himself to be dazzled by the true Wakanda. He allowed himself to be subsumed by the wonder-tale of it all, and to be persuaded that he might become a part of the wonder-tale.

He'd had every intention of returning to Berlin the day after King T'Challa's feast. He was only staying as a courtesy to the king. They spent hours together discussing international politics, intelligence organizations, diplomacy. He saw nothing of Shuri then, though he inquired after her every day, sometimes several times a day. He missed her freshness and passion. She was, he told himself, an amazing kid. A real Girl Wonder. Astonishing what she'd accomplished at only 16. Plus, she was going to be a real heart-breaker when she grew up.

Then on the night of the feast he found out that she _was_ grown up, and that she wanted him, and that she might possibly still want him when she was sober. He was willing to wait to find out. He could delay his return to Berlin by a day.

But he thought he wouldn't get the opportunity when Queen Mother Ramonda called him in to her private suite the next morning. He had a feeling she was going to warn him off. He was prepared for it, and willing to acquiesce to a mother's wishes.

He wasn't at all prepared for what actually took place.

"Agent Ross, thank you for attending me this morning," she said, her manner formal but not unfriendly. "I have a matter of great sensitivity to discuss with you, and I beg you will hear me with an open mind. I also trust in your absolute discretion."

"Yes, Your Majesty. Whatever you've got to say to me will stay strictly between us."

"Thank you. In our short acquaintance I have frequently observed you to act with diplomacy, honor, and discretion. These are not traits I associate with outsiders. Forgive me. The West tends to patronize Wakanda. While it has served our purposes in the matter of self-protection, it is nonetheless galling."

Everett remembered, uncomfortably, that up to a week ago he dismissed Wakanda as a third-world country. He remembered, too, the way he had patronized King T'Challa both in Berlin and in Busan. It was a dick move on his part, and he knew it.

"I understand," he said apologetically.

"Are you a spiritual man, Agent Ross?" the Queen Mother asked unexpectedly.

"I - I can't say that I am."

"I suspected you were not. And yet you witnessed a great mystery when my son was called back from the spirit plane and arose from near death."

"Yes. Yes, I did," he said.

"It was something beyond your understanding, yes? And yet you bore witness to it."

"Yes."

"Allow me to show you something." The Queen Mother tapped one of the Kimoyo beads which encircled her wrist, and a complex, three-dimensional schematic blossomed in the air between them. The Queen Mother manipulated the image with a touch of her finger, so that it spun in place. It was a baffling thing to Everett, colors and lines converging, splitting apart in ways that seemed to defy the very concept of a pattern. And yet Ramonda would touch this place, or that, as if each point held a particular significance to her.

"What is this?" Everett asked.

"It is the destiny map of my daughter, Princess Shuri."

"The destiny map."

"Yes. It is the primary tool of Wakandan astrology, which is more granular and complex than Western astrology. Few outside of the priesthood are insightful enough to decipher them, but I was trained from an early age. Even so, there is only so much the stars are willing to reveal to my understanding. Do you see this swirl here? Right here, Agent Ross." The Queen Mother pointed out a random-looking flourish, and he nodded. "This is the terminus of Shuri's life."

"Oh," he said inadequately. "When?"

The Queen Mother looked at him steadily. "In two weeks' time."

It was absurd. He knew it was absurd. There was no art or science on earth that could foretell the moment of death. And yet he could see that Ramonda believed it unwaveringly. She believed it, and she feared it.

"Can this be prevented?" Everett asked.

The Queen Mother tapped her Kimoyo bead. A second schematic - another destiny map, he supposed - opened between them. "Observe," she said. With a gesture, she merged the two maps. From the chaos, she again touched a particular spot. "See how it has changed. How it continues beyond our seeing."

He shook his head helpless. "I can't. I honestly can't distinguish -"

"No. It is nearly impossible for an outsider."

"But something happened when you merged those maps to change Princess Shuri's destiny."

"Yes."

"So that she doesn't die in two weeks."

"Yes."

"May I ask the significance of the second map?"

"It is your destiny map," she said.

"Mine? How would you even know how to - when I was - Your Majesty, I'm at a loss here."

"The merging of the two maps has altered the course and meaning of each individual map. The merging of maps represents the merging of lives. The only way to prevent the death of my daughter is for you to marry her."

Everett laughed. He couldn't help it. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but that's simply absurd. Even if it were true, why on earth would Princess Shuri want to marry me? She hardly knows me! Unless she's seen this, too, and believes it like you do."

"No!" Ramonda said sharply. "She has not, and you will not mention this to her, ever. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he said.

"Swear it!" she said. "Swear it on the souls of your ancestors!"

"I swear on the souls of my ancestors that I will never mention this to Princess Shuri."

"The oath of a non-believer," Ramonda said, a trifle bitterly.

"The oath of an honorable man," he said.

She seemed to soften at that. She inclined her head. "The oath of an honorable man. As to your persuading her to marry you, I have noticed her interest in you. I have faith that you can fan the flames of that interest. I will depend on you to do so."

It struck him, at the time, how funny it was of her, how absurdly royal, that she never once seemed to entertain the notion that he might not want to marry her daughter.


	6. Chapter 6

He walked back to the hotel, a glorious 19th century heap on the Danube, sorting his thoughts, sifting through his options, trying to come up with a plan. He imagined, with vague resentment, that Shuri would still be sleeping the sleep of the innocent and would not have missed him. She'd awaken with her sweet smile and have no idea of the damage she had caused him. That was unfair of him. Of course it was. So what?  
  
His resentment took on substance with every step, so that by the time he came to their door and found it flanked not by the Dora Milaje but by a couple of huge white goons, he almost felt as if Shuri had made the switch specifically to annoy him.  
  
"Where are the Dora Milaje who were here when I left this morning?" he demanded.  
  
"Gone," said one of the men.  
  
"Gone where?"  
  
He shrugged. "Gone away."  
  
"And who the hell are you?"  
  
"New security detail. How do you do? I am Istvan Nagy. He also is Istvan Nagy."  
  
"Yeah. Right. And who hired you to stand outside my hotel room door?"  
  
"Istvan -"  
  
"Nagy," Everett interrupted, feeling tired all over.  
  
"Nagy, yes."  
  
"Are you going to prevent me from going inside?"  
  
"No, sir. Please."  
  
Suddenly, a sharp odor prickled his nose and he sniffed. "Wait - what the hell is that smell?"  
  
Istvan and Istvan sniffed the air like twin golden retrievers.  
  
"Ego haj?" Verbal Istvan asked non-verbal Istvan. Non-verbal Istvan grunted assent.  
  
"Burning hairs," said the verbal Istvan.  
  
Everett went in to find Shuri kneeling on the floor before the fireplace, feeding her tartan wedding dress to the gas fire. She didn't so much as glance at him, but watched the wool curl and smoke in the flames.  
  
"What the hell are you doing, Shuri?" He opened a couple of windows, grabbed the morning paper, knelt down beside her, turned off the gas fire, and fanned the air.  
  
She turned the fire back on. "Extracting the vibranium threads."  
  
"What do you want to do that for? Your country's got mountains of the stuff." He turned the fire off. When she made to turn it back on, he grabbed her wrist and held it, his grip strong. She held her arm stiff, not resisting, not yielding. She would not look at him, nor would she answer his question.  
  
"Where have you been?" she asked quietly.  
  
"Walking. Drinking coffee. Trying to clear my head."  
  
"Hmm. Good for you. I might try doing that. Walking. Drinking coffee. Trying to clear my head. Except that I do not know the language, and I am the only Black woman for kilometers, and I do not understand how to navigate this technologically primitive society."  
  
"Shuri -"  
  
Then she looked at him.  
  
"I know nobody here. I know _nothing_ here. I am caught out of time. And the man - the man who brought me here - the man who - who - he cannot be bothered to let me know when he is leaving, where he is going, and when he intends to come back." She didn't raise her voice, but her whole body trembled, and her eyes stared not at him, but through him, with fixed intensity.  
  
He let go of her wrist. "What's happened?"  
  
She got up and stalked across the room, then whipped around and flung her bracelet of Kimoyo beads at him. "I have been _cut out_."  
  
He caught them awkwardly against his chest, and fingered them, confused. "They're dark."  
  
"Because I have been cut out. As I said already."  
  
"I'm listening, Shuri, but I don't understand. Please treat me as if I were stupid -"  
  
"Not a reach."  
  
"- and explain everything in detail."  
  
She recounted, with the same deadly quiet, her conversation with Nakia.  
  
"Wait ... your brother allowed that to happen? What the hell is his problem?"  
  
"His problem is that the tribal elders distrust you, and they distrust me for marrying you. And now they have stranded me here in this primitive world, with no way to contact them and no recourse."  
  
"Look. We'll go to Wakanda. There are still flights to Kenya. There are still rental cars."  
  
"The Border Tribe will keep me out. Even should they fail to do so, I will be apprehended and escorted out."  
  
"But not harmed."  
  
"Not harmed? Not _harmed_?" She was suddenly across the room, uncomfortably near, openly, passionately enraged. "Do you know who I _am_? Do you know _anything_ at all about me? This has _destroyed_ me! Why did you bring me here?"  
  
With an ill-timed attempt at humor, he said, "I don't think it's fair to blame Budapest."  
  
And her fists and feet were flailing. They went down together, but he somehow managed to gather her in his arms. She caused him actual pain, but he held her tight and he didn't let go.  
  
"Stop it. Stop now, Shuri. Just settle ... settle down. You're a scientist, remember? A rational being. You don't let emotions - Shuri, that hurt! You don't let emotions sway you. You observe. Yes? You observe impartially and you draw con- God _damn_ it! That _really_ hurt! You draw conclusions. There. Breathe. That's good. Okay. Okay. It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay."  
  
He rocked her, stroking her braids back from her face, dropping a kiss on her forehead. He still held her tight. He was afraid she'd fly apart again if he relaxed.  
  
"I hate you," she said, her voice muffled against his chest.  
  
"I know it," he replied. "I'm sorry I left you alone, Shuri. I'm so, so sorry."  
  
"I was so scared," she said. "And those strange men outside -"  
  
"I know. I'm sorry. I didn't think."  
  
After a moment, in an altered tone, she said, "Will they throw us out of the hotel because of the smoke?"  
  
"Yep. It's straight to prison for us."  
  
She snorted, and she relaxed against him, and for a while it was all right again.


	7. Chapter 7

And then she asked, "Trying to clear your head of what?"  
  
She had finished burning her dress after all, lamenting the fire-retardant properties of wool and wishing for a certain liquid fuel in her lab at home to accelerate the process. Ev had rolled up a towel and pressed it against the bottom of the door. With all the windows open and Ev fanning the air with a newspaper, Shuri had imagined that the smell of burning wool wasn't utterly overpowering. While they waited for the ashes to cool they attacked the massive fruit basket, a gift from the Hungarian government. Ev peeled an orange and fed it to her piece by piece. They argued about bananas - Shuri preferred hers with a tinge of green in the peel, while Ev liked the awful, overripe, revolting ones with black spots.  
  
"I like my bananas like I like my women," he said. "Sweet, strong, and hoochy."  
  
She didn't understand that last word. He explained it meant like alcohol. Hooch was slang for alcohol.  
  
"Do I make you tipsy?" she asked.  
  
"Honey, you make me knee-walkin' drunk."  
  
She tried to act lighthearted, because Ev was trying so hard, and because she felt ashamed of her earlier breakdown. She didn't have breakdowns. Even during that dark time when she thought her brother was dead and Wakanda in the hands of Killmonger, she stayed strong - for her mother, for Nakia, for Wakanda itself.  
  
Who did she have to stay strong for now?  
  
"Let's think about options," he said abruptly. "We can go to New York. Tony Stark's facilities may be more primitive than yours, but they're something."  
  
"But how would we get there?"  
  
"Airplane."  
  
She pulled away and stared at him, aghast. "I am not setting foot in one of those contraptions!"  
  
"Our options are limited."  
  
"Dying in a plane crash is not what I would call an option."  
  
"Tell me this," he said. "How do you see this playing out? Will your brother be able to persuade the elders? I mean, this is temporary, right?"  
  
"I do not know. I am so angry, and so hurt, that it is difficult for me to think clearly."  
  
"It's a problem to solve. You like solving problems, right? Finding elegant solutions?"  
  
"To things. To processes. Not to people."  
  
"People are made up of things and processes. People are crazy-assed, balky, inefficient computers. But they do operate by certain rules."  
  
"Stupid rules," she said. "Stupid, jumbled-up, illogical rules that change all the time."  
  
And that was when she asked, "Trying to clear your head of what?"  
  
She felt the sudden, if subtle, new tension in his body. But he said, in a light tone, "Beg your pardon?"  
  
"You said you were out walking and trying to clear your head. Clear your head of what?"  
  
"It's just a figure of speech," he replied. "Princess, shall I peel you a grape?"  
  
"You were trying to clear your head of me," she said softly. "Weren't you? You were trying to get sober."  
  
He still held her. He still rested his chin on the top of her head. But she perceived a new distance, a coldness, that she'd never felt from him before.  
  
"I might ask you why," he replied, "out of all your clothes, you chose to burn your wedding dress."  
  
Her private ship gone. Her bodyguards gone. Her communications gone. Her access to tech gone. Home gone, family gone. Everything except Ev. And Ev was not enough. If he had asked her to give up everything for his sake, she might have viewed it as mad and romantic, but she would have said no without a moment's hesitation. But he hadn't even asked her. She hadn't been given the option to say no.  
  
And how long was he going to want her, now that she was barred from the richest, most technologically advanced country in the world? Bed sport could carry one only so far.  
  
"I have lost everything," she said, staring hard into the distance. "Because of you. What have you lost because of me?"  
  
He still held the grape he'd offered to peel for her. After a moment, he popped it in his own mouth and chewed slowly.  
  
"Nothing," he said at last.  
  
"You see?"  
  
"Except my better judgement," he added. "It was a mistake for us to marry."  
  
She pulled away from him and trapped his face in her hands, intently studying his eyes, his mouth, for signs that he wasn't serious. He clearly was. The rush of relief seemed to lift a stone off her heart.  
  
"It was a mistake," she said eagerly. "We - we rushed for no reason. It would have been better to wait. You have your own world, after all. You have your own life. And there is so much work to be done. My head is a beehive of ideas, all buzzing for attention. There is nothing I can do here. I must get home."  
  
"So if we divorce, they'll let you come back?" he asked. A single facial muscle twitched, stilled, twitched again. There was no warmth in his eyes. They might have been talking about catching a later maglev to Birnin Zana's garment district for a shopping trip.  
  
"Why would they not?" she replied.  
  
He looked at his watch.  
  
"Stay married to me for one more day," he said. "Then tomorrow let me divorce your ass and send you back home."  
  
"Why one more day?"  
  
With a glint of self-deprecating humor, he said, "Because I'm greedy. Because I brought you to Budapest for a specific reason. No, I'm not going to tell you, so don't ask. I want it to take you by surprise the way it took me by surprise. And if it doesn't, I'll be ecstatic to divorce your ass because, frankly, you won't be worthy to be my wife."  
  
"One more day," she said. And if it hurt to say it, the hurt didn't last long.


	8. Chapter 8

It is true that neither of them had ever said those three words to each other. A mutual reticence had held them back. They must have both known, on a fundamental if inarticulate level, that everything had moved much too quickly, from the moment the bullet shattered Everett's spine to the moment the priest of Bast bound their wrists together with a ceremonial rope of copal beads. Adrenaline. Heightened emotions. You fled. You fought. You fucked. Because those were the three roads to survival.

They had fled, and they had fought, and God, how they'd fucked.

But they'd never said those three fatal words - "I love you."

Which ought to make all this so much easier.

* * *

"I don't want to sound crass, but I'm not sure I've got an option," he'd said to Queen Mother Ramonda that day. "If I marry your daughter, what's in it for me?"

Ramonda was clearly taken aback by the question, which both annoyed Everett and strangely touched him. The woman clearly thought the world of her daughter. Certainly her maternal pride was warranted. Not everybody had a gorgeous genius for a child.

"I am not sure I understand your question," she said.

"You believe that if I marry her, it will save her life," he said. "She saved my life, so I certainly owe her. But I'm having a difficult time envisioning what sort of life you think we'd lead as a married couple. I have my career. I have a home and a life in Berlin. What happens to that if I marry Shuri? If I give that up, what replaces it?"

Queen Mother Ramonda looked sincerely baffled. "Why, Birnin Zana! Or perhaps you would prefer a less urban abode? Is that it? Such a home would pose no difficulties, though Shuri does prefer to be near her lab."

"But what would I _do_?"

"Oh," she said. "You would want an occupation. Of course. I am confident that T'Challa could find use for you."

Everett smiled and shook his head.

The Queen Mother's brow furrowed. "Have I offended you, Agent Ross?"

And what could he say to that?

* * *

Today was the fateful day. All he needed to do was stay married to Shuri until midnight, to fulfill his promise to her mother. After that, she could return home, where she needed to be. Easy peasy. Once they were divorced, he might get his job back. He had intel. But since T'Challa was on the verge of opening Wakanda's borders, Everett's intel might be good for nothing but wrapping fish and chips. And that was all right, too. He wasn't looking to be a Judas.

* * *

After the initial rush of relief that Ev was happy (happy!) to release her from this marriage so that she could return back home, Shuri felt dread return to lodge in her chest and her stomach. The suite, though large, felt claustrophobic. She felt like a prisoner, yet she was afraid to leave. Without the Dora Milaje, without recourse to the technology of Wakanda, she felt acutely vulnerable, acutely mortal. Out here, a disease or an injury could actually kill her. She could die, and all her ideas and plans with her, before she could go back home.

She must do _something_ or be paralyzed by fear, so she sat before the fireplace and drew out filaments of vibranium from the now-cool ashes, winding them around her hand. They were finer than silk. It comforted her to handle them. Ev sat beside her and followed her lead, and she quizzed him on his Xhosa. He was doing pretty well - not that it mattered any more. He wasn't a stereotypical monolingual American, but had a mastery of German and Korean, enough Spanish and French to get by, and a smattering of Hungarian. The latter, he said, was linguistically related to Finnish and rather difficult.

"Ev," she said. "Everett."

"Hmm?"

"Why did you marry me?"

He looked at her for a long time. At last, he said, "Because you made me feel young. Believe me, Shuri, that's more powerful than you can imagine. Some day, when you're my age and I'm long dead, some exciting, beautiful, sexy, fuckable young guy might come along who makes you feel the way you made me feel, and you'll understand what it is. You'll feel like the whole world is new, and that you're new with it. You'll feel death-proof."

"Oh," she said. "Is that all."

And she wondered why his words caused her such pain.


	9. Chapter 9

All the vibranium threads wound and neatly stacked between them, Everett and Shuri looked at each other, each thinking "Now what?"

"Let's go out," Everett said. "I want to show you Budapest. Do all the touristy stuff. We can visit Buda Castle and Matthias Church, or go to one of the spas, or hang out in the Jewish Quarter and eat flodni until we go into a diabetic coma."

Shuri smiled and shook her head. "I would rather not."

"Go out or eat flodni?"

"Go out."

"I can take care of you," he said. "And don't forget about Istvan and Istvan."

"Who?"

"The goons out there."

"Are they _our_ goons?"

With unnerving timing came a knock at the door. "We may be about to find out." Everett kissed Shuri on the forehead and got up to answer the door. "Who is it?"

A familiar voice, masculine, American, answered "Istvan Nagy."

Everett closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. "What the actual fuck." He opened the door and a tall, well-built man, dressed plainly in jeans, a hoodie, and sunglasses stepped into the room.

"Your Highness," he said, bowing to Shuri. "Agent Ross. Good to see you both again. Congratulations to you, Agent Ross. Best wishes, Your Highness." Such wholesome, mid 20th century etiquette. Everett wanted to punch the man in the face, particularly when Shuri greeted him like an old and beloved friend.

"What are you doing here?" she asked eagerly.

"I heard about what happened with the tribal council and I wanted to make sure you were covered for security. Istvan and Istvan work for me. They're good men, and top at their jobs. You can trust them."

"That's assuming we can trust you," Everett said. "Since you went rogue, I'd trust you about as far as I could throw the Queen Mary."

"Princess Shuri trusts me," Rogers said.

"The hell she does!"

"Ev, I do. It is all right."

Rogers raised an eyebrow and silently mouthed " _Ev_?"

"No, it's not all right! I don't know how or when you met this man, but he's responsible for a prison break at the Raft that's let loose half a dozen rogue, extremely dangerous enhanced -"

"With all due respect, sir -"

"Fuck your due respect and fuck you! I want you out of this room and I want your goons out of this hotel."

"I'm not doing this for you," Rogers said. "I'm doing this for Princess Shuri, at the request of Queen Mother Ramonda."

"Mother!" Shuri exclaimed, her face lighting up. "I knew she would not sit still for this! Ev, I told you -"

Every muscle tense, Everett jerked his head toward the door. "You and me. Out there."

Rogers shrugged and followed Everett out to the hall. Everett leaned close, his eyes angry on the taller man. "Now you listen to me. You get in touch with Ramonda, and immediately. You tell her that she had better be here at the stroke of midnight tonight to take Shuri back home with her, because I'm not going to be here. I'm going to be on my way to Vienna to get a divorce. Got that?"

Rogers looked down at him with anger and no little contempt. "You are a piece of work," he said.

"Oh, yes," said Everett. "Yes, I am. And you are contacting Ramonda. Now. Right now."

"I'm contacting the Queen Mother, and then I'm taking Princess Shuri with me."

"Try it," said Everett, "and I will beat the ever-living fuck out of you."

"You think you could, little man?"

The door opened and Shuri peered out. "Is everything all right?"

"You bet," said Everett.

"Fine, Your Highness," said Rogers.

"No," said verbal Istvan. "Disagreements are happening."

"You," said Everett, pointing at verbal Istvan. "Shut up. And you," he said to Rogers, "do what I told you and then fuck off." He stalked into the room, pulled Shuri away from the door, shut and locked it.

"So," said Shuri, with a faint smile, "you two do not enjoy each other's company?"


	10. Chapter 10

He was used to having the coolest head in the room. He never let it be personal, never let it be about ego. Moving around powerful people had taught him the dangers of both. Observe, analyze, think quickly and objectively. Be what you are needed to be, when you're needed, and be clear-eyed enough to know when you're not. And even if you aren't in control of a situation, always be in control of yourself.

And then he saw the way Shuri looked at Steve Rogers.

The jealousy hit him so hard it stunned the civilized, rational parts of his brain. It no longer mattered that he was prepared to give her up for the sake of her happiness. Fuck her happiness. His feral brain, possessive, dominating, was more than happy to take over. _My_ woman. _Mine_.

"How much do _you_ enjoy his company?"

She actually flinched. "What?"

He leaned close and spoke in an intense near-whisper. "How much? Hey? How many times? And for how long?"

"I cannot believe you are asking me this!"

"I wonder what your mother promised him for watching over you. Birnin Zana, or a place in the country? Though you really prefer to be near your lab."

"What is wrong with you?" Shuri tried to back away and get some distance. He grabbed her arm and yanked her back to him. He wanted to hurt her and fuck her, hurt her by fucking her, and make her like it. He wanted to drive his anger and his pain into her and make her beg for it, all of it.

"You tell me," he said.

They both started at the knock on the door.

"Princess Shuri, it's Steve Rogers. I'd like to speak with you, if you don't mind."

"Tell him to go away. Tell him to come back at midnight."

"Why should I?" she hissed at him.

"Because I told you to, my lovely little bride. And you _are_ my bride, at least until midnight."

Their eyes locked for a moment. Their chests rose and fell with angry breath. But Shuri looked away first.

"Please go away," she called, her voice clear and steady. "I would like to spend the rest of the day with my husband."

"Alone," Everett whispered. "Say alone."

"Alone."

"Begging your pardon, Your Highness -"

"Please do not argue with me, Mr. Rogers. Come back at midnight and then we will talk."

"All right, Your Highness."

Everett whispered, "Good girl."

She twisted free from his grasp and crossed the room to the closet. He watched her, biting down on his thumbnail and smiling. She pulled out her suitcase and opened it, and started pulling clothes off their hangers and throwing them in heedlessly.

He picked up the phone and dialed room service. "Yes, I want two bottles of your best champagne. Make sure there's plenty of ice in the buckets. While you're at it, send up a jar of honey. _Honey_. H-O-N- Yes, honey. Oh, and I need a sharp knife. Very sharp." Shuri had stopped packing and stared at him. He held her gaze and smiled. "I've got a ripe mango to peel."

"I do not want champagne," she said, after he hung up the phone. He detected a tremor in her voice, which pleased him.

"But I do."

"You do not drink."

"I do today."

She sank down in a crouch, her hands full of forgotten clothing, and watched him as he went through the suite closing all the blinds. He found the thermostat and turned the heat up. He turned on the gas fire. He gathered up the beeswax pillar candles that decorated the suite and took them into the bathroom. There he arranged them on the counter, on the floor, and lit them. Then he turned on the hot water in the shower and left the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Room service arrived quickly. Istvan and Istvan watched the waiter as he wheeled in his cart and disposed of two buckets of champagne in ice, a pair of champagne flutes, a jar of honey, and a sharp paring knife. Everett caught the waiter giving Shuri (who had resumed sloppily packing her clothes) a hostile glare. Hungary wasn't immune to the alarmingly reactionary, xenophobic sentiments that were rising up around the world. The guy may have known who Shuri was or he may not. Either way, he clearly found her existence offensive.

"What's your problem, pal?" Everett demanded.

The waiter muttered something in Hungarian and left without waiting for a tip. Verbal Istvan pinked to the tips of his ears. Non-verbal Istvan made to go after the waiter, but verbal Istvan pulled him back.

"What did he say?" Everett asked. Verbal Istvan shook his head and glanced with sorrowful fondness at Shuri, who had somehow missed the entire exchange. Non-verbal Istvan actually growled.

"Right," said Everett. "Leave."

The bodyguards shuffled out and Everett shut and locked the door. He opened a bottle of champagne - the pop of the cork made Shuri flinch - and poured some into the two flutes.

"Come and drink with me, my sweet Shuri."

Eyes wide, she shook her head. He shrugged and drained his glass. He'd had nothing but coffee and a bit of fruit that day, and the alcohol's effects were immediate.

"I thought you wanted to go out," she said, her voice small.

"I thought you didn't."

"Now that I know the goons are our goons -"

He came to her side. "Listen to me," he said, his voice low but rough. "You say you trust Steve Rogers? You do that, sweetheart. Put your trust his enriched, white bread, all-American goodness. He's easy to digest, and he's empty calories, and he'll never pretend to be anything else.

"But if you think I'm going to let you surrender yourself to his tender mercies and take you home without a fight, then little girl, you don't know me. And it's high time I introduced myself to you. I'm a liar by profession, a con man and an inquisitor, and I am very, very good at my job. So let's spend our last day really getting to know each other, shall we? After all, we're not going to get another chance. Let's make the most of it, huh?"

"I do not know who you are right now."

"As I said."

"You're scaring me."

He took her jaw in his hand and kissed her - too long, too hard. When he broke the kiss, he smiled.

"Good," he whispered.


	11. Chapter 11

"Now drink with me."

Ev - no, not Ev. Ev was someone she thought she knew. Ev was the man she had married. This man, this stranger with feral eyes, grasped the braids at the back of her head. He didn't drag her to the table. She moved of her own accord. But she didn't doubt he would have dragged her, had she not done so. He pulled her head back and tipped the champagne flute to her lips.

"Drink."

She drank. The champagne caught hard in her throat. She coughed. It was too much, too fast, and a trickle ran down her chin and neck. He put down the glass and refilled both of them. He drank first, never taking his eyes off hers. She raised her hands to his when he held the second glass to her lips, to slow him, to control the flow of champagne. A corner of his mouth raised, and his fingers tightened in her hair.

"We wouldn't want you to gag, would we?"

Breathless from draining the glass, from fear, and from the dreadful arousal that flooded her, she gasped, "You must believe me. Steve Rogers is an acquaintance only. I never for one moment -"

He pressed an index finger to her lips. "Hush. We're not there yet."

"But you are jealous and angry for no reason!"

"How would you feel if I told you I was neither jealous nor angry?"

"I wouldn't believe you." Her breath came unevenly. His fingers in her hair, his eyes, his dangerous smile, all intoxicated her more than the alcohol. Her vagina contracted hard. "Please. I need to sit down."

"With me." He didn't let go of her hair. She let him take her to the bathroom door, let him bring her inside. The air was sweltering, nearly opaque with steam from the shower, and heavy with the scent of hot beeswax. He closed the door and pushed her against it, pinning her with his hips. Unhurriedly, he unkotted his tie and slid it from his collar. In the steam, lit only by candlelight, he looked almost demonic.

"Hands behind your back."

Her heart banged against her rib cage like a wild animal frantic to escape. She shook her head. Their play had taken them many places, but being bound, even superficially, even symbolically, beyond the marriage ceremony, was utterly taboo, and she had told him so. Royalty were not bound. Shuri was royal to her DNA.

"Don't make me hurt you."

"Do not make me fight you," she said.

Before she knew what was happening, he'd turned her and slammed her into the door and thrust one thigh between her legs. He wrestled her hands behind her back and knotted the tie around her wrists. He knew what he was doing. She couldn't free her hands. He kept his thigh pressed tight between her legs and pulled her head back by her hair. His mouth so close that she could barely stand the feel of his breath against her ear, he said, "You are no longer my wife. You are no longer a princess. You are my prisoner. Do you understand?"

A humiliating wave of terror and arousal washed over her. "Please stop," she said.

"Not a chance."

"Please, please untie me." She hated the quaver in her voice.

"Again, not a chance." His mouth moved from her ear to the side of her neck, lips dry and hot and delicious against her damp skin.

"Wakanda," she said, her voice catching in her throat.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Wakanda!"

He gave a low laugh. "I was hoping you'd try your safe word. It's going to be so much fun ignoring it."

"Everett!" she cried. "Please!"

A sharp tug of her hair. "You will address me as Agent Ross. Do you understand, prisoner?"

She closed her eyes tight. A shudder shook her. Her whole life, she had been deferred to and obeyed. The people who surrounded her were respectful. Her lovers were reverent. Up until now, even Everett had maintained a level of reserve that sometimes frustrated her. Perversely, though she longed with all her heart to go home, it had hurt her that he was so willing to let her go. She'd wished he were selfish, possessive, willing to guard her like a dragon guarding a jewel or a virgin.

And now that he was ...

Or appeared to be ...

"Do you understand?"

Stripped of the trappings of authority, stripped of protection, she had never felt so naked in her life. And now he had broken the taboo of binding her and broken the taboo of ignoring her safe word. She began to cry. It was horrible but she couldn't stop herself. The tears streamed down her face, and huge sobs wracked her body. He turned her so that her back was to the door and he pulled her close. She thought her tears had reached him. She thought she had found him again. He was coming back to her, to comfort her. But his hand, which slid so gently down her back, didn't undo the tie, but checked to make sure it was still tight. His hand moved to her hip. It moved between them and reached under her skirt, and found her panties, already soaked with sweat and desire. A finger hooked beneath the leg opening and slid between her swollen inner labia. She cried out as if he had wounded her.

"God, you're wet," he murmured close to her ear. "And what a sweet, sweet hard-on you've got. This mango is ripe for the eating."

"Ev, Ev ..."

"Agent Ross. Say it. Agent Ross."

"I cannot!"

"Oh, you can. You will."

He slid two fingers inside her, and her vagina contracted hard around them. She wanted. Bast, she wanted. She wanted. When he withdrew his hand, she actually whimpered, and felt shame flood her face.

He moved her away from the door and pushed her against the wall. Steam and sweat soaked his shirt and beaded his face. "Sit down."

He helped her down to the floor, then pulled her hips forward. "Knees up, prisoner," he said, when she stretched her legs flat on the floor. She drew up her knees. She could not look at him. His voice was almost too much for her.

"Don't move." He left, closing the door behind him. When he returned, he had a bottle of champagne in one hand and the jar of honey in the other. He held the knife between his teeth. He put the champagne and honey on the floor and put the knife on the counter. He closed the toilet lid and sat down.

"Is it too hot, prisoner? Too humid? Yes or no, prisoner."

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Agent Ross."

He smiled. "Very good, prisoner. For that, I'll turn off the water." He got up and shut off the shower. Silence surrounded them, thick as steam, soft as cotton. He sat back down, his hands on his knees.

"Here's how it's going to be, prisoner. I ask you a question. You answer it truthfully. If I like your answer, I'll cut a piece of clothing off you. You'll like that, won't you? To get out of those clothes in this heat. And if I don't like your answer, I won't. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Agent Ross." Tears slid down her face, mingling with her sweat.

"I would drink every one of those tears," he said, gazing at her face as if suddenly mesmerized.

"Please untie me. _Please_."

The hard-hearted agent was back in a flash. "Not until I'm ready, prisoner."

"Why are you so cruel?"

"Because it pleases me to be cruel. Whatever you thought, I'm not a nice person to know. Don't look so betrayed, prisoner. You must have known it deep inside. That must be why you were so eager to get away from me at the first sign of trouble. The elders are right about me, prisoner. And your brother and mother are fools." He undid the top two buttons of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. "You accused me of not knowing anything about you, but what do you know about me? Do you have any idea what I've done? Do you have any idea what I'm capable of doing? How do you know I haven't been deep undercover - very deep - this whole time? God, if only all my jobs were like you. I even let you top me. That was funny. Like being topped by a kitten. You arched your little back and hissed. It was adorable."

Condensed steam trickled down the walls, as if they wept in sympathy with her.

"Now," said Agent Ross, "Shall we begin?"


	12. Chapter 12

_When did he?_

_When did she?_

_He tips the bottle to her lips, but only a drop, like the drip of the faucet, the drip of condensation that falls from the ceiling and hisses on candle flame, crackles in melted beeswax, a drop on her tongue, and then nothing._

_When did she drink?_

_He poured champagne down her throat._

_He poured names in her ears._

Where is Sam Wilson?

Wanda Maximoff?

Clint Barton?

Scott Lang?

_Strange names. She has never heard these names. When did he ask her about these strange names?_

_What was the question?_

_Was there a question?_

_He holds the knife. It rips through cloth. That is his power, the power to cut it all away, everything away, until she is clothed in nothing but sweat. And the sweat cannot hide her. The sweat cannot protect her._

_The air so thick, languorous heat, echoes and drips, heavy, heady breath, narcotic and fever and_ him _._

_Surrender to his power. Let him take what he wants._

_He pours honey into his hand._ "And for my next trick," _he says. Trickster demon, foreign demon. He rubs the honey across her wet skin, stripped and wet, wet and arching, arching and longing, longing and begging, oh give, give to me, oh take, take from me, just touch, touch me, just touch there, and there, and there oh there oh there._

"You are golden," _he says, as if in awe._ "You are made all of gold."

_Lips, fingertips, tongue. Surrender. Surrender. Melt into his mouth like the honey that melts on your skin._

_Was there a question?_

_Did she answer the question?_

Why did you save my life?

Why did you seduce me?

Why did you marry me?

_Ask me again. Ask again. Again. Oh, again and again._

_When did he strip himself? Hand full of honey pulling on his cock, his strange, pale cock, so heavy, so hard, balls pulled up so tight._

_"_ Take me _," he says. Honey and salt, and then salt, just salt, his salt._ "Sword swallower," _he groans._ "Oh my God." _Can a foreign demon invoke the foreign God? Strange pale lover, demon lover, who holds her head tight._

_When did he unbind her wrists? When did he lay her down on the cool tiles? When did she wrap arms around him, legs around him? Their bodies slide against each other, slick and sticky, salty and sweet. She sinks her fingernails into his back to see if he is real, or if he is something born of the steam. He cries out and bucks against her. She takes her hand away and tastes blood on her fingers._

"Look at me," _he commands her. Or is he begging? Can a demon beg?_ "Look into my eyes."

_She has never seen eyes so blue, blue because they are skies without a soul, blue because he is a demon of air and steam, not an angel of the earth as she is, as are all her people._

_She looks into his eyes. She looks and she looks and she says_ "Come inside me."

_With the cry of a lost soul, he does._

* * *

_He carries her to the bathtub and turns on the shower. He washes her. He washes himself. The honey and sweat swirl down the drain. He sings softly to her, as if singing to a baby._

"'cause tonight I'm going back to where we started from  
"You can dream that we were dreaming that we fell in love."

_He turns off the water. He wraps her in a soft, thick white robe and carries her to the bed. He lays her down, and he opens her legs, and he lies face down between them, his tongue so gentle, so slow, so perfect that it lulls her to exhausted sleep._


	13. Chapter 13

 

He dreamed that he lost Shuri in a crowded train station. He tried to call her on his cell phone, but every time he tried to key in her number. which he had written down on an index card, the numbers got jumbled in his vision, or his fingers wouldn't press the correct keys. A gunshot rang out, and he awoke with a start. He was sweating. His head ached from the drink and from dehydration. Shuri was curled next to him, sleeping deeply. He stroked her arm, her hip. His relief in seeing her safe was quickly muted by the ache of knowing that he was losing her.

He got up and dressed in fresh clothes. As he had that morning, he drank water from his cupped hands, and splashed some over his face. What a long day it had been, strange as a dream. A hell of a day. A heaven of a day. And if he merited hell for what he had done, and what he had yet to do, to that beautiful, that perfect woman, he hoped his good intentions would count at least a small part in his favor.

He checked his watch. 10:30. Time enough to pack his bags and make order of the mess she'd made of her own. He started on her clothes first, dumping them out of her suitcases and onto the floor, shaking them out (her scent, so sweet), folding them neatly. She shifted in the bed. He glanced up. She leaned on one elbow, watching him. The covers had fallen away and exposed her breasts, her belly. Bruises bloomed on her skin from where he'd bitten her and sucked her too hard.

"Such service," she said drily.

"Still drunk?" he asked.

She cleared her throat. "No. My head hurts, and I feel as if I swallowed a cat with very long fur."

"You're dehydrated." He got up and brought her a glass of water, which she drank thirstily. "Better?"

"Mm-hm. Thank you."

"I'll order up some sandwiches in a bit. Don't make a face. You need to eat."

"You are being so solicitous."

"Hah. It's the least I could do." He took her chin in his hand and smiled down at her coldly. "After the good time you showed me."

She pulled away and drew the covers up to her neck.

"Don't be modest on my account," he said. "I'm done with you. You might as well get dressed."

She bit her lower lip. For a moment he thought she might be on the verge of tears. Then she threw back the covers and got out of bed, stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind her. The shower turned on. The shower curtain slid on its rod. So she was going to wash off the last of him. Good for her.

He called room service and ordered an assortment of open-faced sandwiches and a pot of coffee. As he hung up, Shuri came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Everett had left a couple of her dresses on the hangers. She took one down with such a jerk that the hanger hit the back of the closet. She dressed hurriedly, angrily.

"Oh, now," said Everett. "Don't be like that."

"Like what?" she demanded.

"Like that." He gestured toward her. "At least try for a graceful exit, sweetheart."

"Do you have to be so horrible?"

"I am what I am. I did tell you. Or were you too drunk to hear me?"

A fearful expression momentarily flashed across her face, as if she had remembered, or almost remembered, something terrible. "I do not care, one way or another. Anything you said is of so little importance -"

"Attagirl. That's how you save face. If I were a gentleman, I wouldn't remind you of how pitifully you cried when I confessed my Alexander Keats deception. Don't you remember me telling you how I eavesdropped on your mother's charming story when you and she and Nakia thought I was asleep?"

The fear was plain on her face now. She didn't try to hide it.

"Hmm? Is it coming back to you now? That week after the battle, while you were sulking in your room, I was doing research and memorizing some truly shitty poetry. It took a while before I could spring it on you, but once I did you swallowed it whole. Was that when you decided you wanted to marry me? When you believed all that destiny malarkey was true?"

"You are really not related to -"

"Oh, Shuri. Don't make me pity you. Of course I'm not related to your cougar auntie's dead boytoy. I played you."

"Why?" she asked. A tear slid down her face, but she didn't even seem to notice it.

He smiled. Even as his mouth hurt, he smiled. "Vibranium. Power. Intel. And your lovely little pussy to sweeten the deal."

She nodded. The movement was almost a palsy. "Yes," she said. "All right." She put her palms flat on the table and stared at them.

"But if it makes you feel better, you can believe that I loved you. What did your mother say? 'Love is the only thing that survives.' Isn't that right, Shuri? It survives separation. It survives death. It survives everything but the tribal elders of Wakanda."

Somebody rapped on the door. He glanced at his watch. A minute to 11:00. Never mind slow European service. The room service at this hotel was almost too fast.

"Come in," he shouted.

It was the same jerk waiter as before. He wheeled in the cart and uncovered the tray of sandwiches. Then he reached underneath the tray and pulled out the gun and shouted something in Hungarian. Everett took Shuri down, conscious, in an unmoved way, of the bullet that grazed his shoulder and the sickening crack as Shuri's head hit the corner of the table. He lay covering her. Istvan and Istvan were on the waiter, wrestling the gun from his hand. Non-verbal Istvan punched the waiter over and over again. Verbal Istvan spoke urgently on his headset.

"Get him the fuck out of here and call an ambulance!" Everett shouted. He rolled Shuri onto her back. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth hung slack. Blood pooled from a gash on the side of her head.

"Oh, God, baby. Oh God, oh Bast." He held her until the ambulance came.

* * *

 

At the emergency room they hooked her up to a saline drip and cleaned and bandaged her wound. Everett held her hand. His own hand trembled. He thought of Ramonda's destiny maps. He thought about the one-hour time difference between Wakanda and Budapest. He thought about love, and sacrifice, and the sheer stupidity of human emotions.

He looked up as Ramonda, flanked by a pair of Dora Milaje, rushed into the cubicle. Everett got up and moved out of the way. Ramonda bent over her child, keening and speaking in distraught Xhosa.

"Better get her out of here," Everett said. Ramonda glanced up at him, bewildered. He turned to the Dora Milaje. "What are you waiting for? Take her home where she can get some decent medical attention!"

Ramonda nodded to her bodyguards. One of the Dora Milaje removed Shuri's IV. The other lifted Shuri up and quickly walked away.

"You," said Everett, as Ramonda rose to follow. "Wait. Bring up those destiny maps."

"You also are wounded," said Ramonda, irrelevantly, just now noticing the blood that soaked his shirt.

"I'll be fine. Just bring up the maps. Do it now."

Ramonda did as he demanded. The two schematics still lay over each other, in each other, as they had when she had first merged them in her suite.

"Separate them," he said.

With a flick of her finger, she separated the two schematics.

"Is she safe now?"

"Yes," said Ramonda. "She is safe."

"Even if we're no longer married?"

"Yes. Even if - But -"

"Then get the hell out of here."

"Agent Ross -"

"Don't. Just - don't."

And then she was gone. It was over. And the pain from the bullet wound in his shoulder kept him safe.


	14. Chapter 14

He sold his apartment in Berlin, the rental house he owned in Maryland, and closed out his 401k. With the help of a few shady connections he got forged papers under the name Istvan Nagy. Despite everything, he was not without a bleak sense of humor. He got a small apartment in Budapest and opened a coffee house, Amerikai Kave, in the Jewish Quarter. Nobody knew who he was. Why should they? The news pouring out of Wakanda's newly-opened borders made his brief marriage to Shuri a sideshow of a sideshow. So he grew a beard, traded his suits for jeans and T-shirts, made coffee for English-speaking expats and a certain hip subculture of young Hungarians, and became known, in a low-key kind of way, as a guy who knew things. He traded in information if the price was right and if the buyer was clean. It was a decent gig.

He hadn't been able to escape news of the royal wedding. The whole world had caught _WAKANDAMANIA!_ , as the self-congratulatory headlines screamed, and had fallen frankly in love with the handsome, dignified king (many a romantic soul sighed over photos of him smiling his shy smile) and his stunning bride-to-be. Nakia's beauty launched a million puff pieces about her style, speculations about her beauty regimen, and how-to pieces on recreating the Nakia 'do. Everett imagined these stories infuriated her (assuming she deigned to read them in the first place). More considered articles about her humanitarian efforts graced the pages of prestigious international publications. But her background as a War Dog appeared to be a closely guarded secret.

He saw footage of the royal wedding ceremony, which included shots of Queen Mother Ramonda and Princess Shuri smiling, Queen Mother Ramonda and Princess Shuri dancing. They both looked happy. Why shouldn't they be? They adored Nakia nearly as much as T'Challa did. She was a happy, long-wished-for addition to the royal family.

One by one, Shuri's desires came true. She met Elaine Welteroth and got her STEM/Wakanda fashion designers issue of _Teen Vogue_. _Science_ and _Nature_ accepted her papers as quickly as she could write them. The first community center in Oakland thrived and bore fruit. T'Challa and Shuri established others in Chicago's South Side, New Orleans, Flint, Ferguson. The locals who trained under her and her Wakandan lieutenants then went on to different cities to launch new community centers. It was a good system.

The Wakanda Design Group opened their American Nesibindi plants in Michigan and Mississippi. Shuri was there for the dedications of each. Other plants opened throughout Africa, Europe and Asia. The world could not get enough of the affordable hover-scooters. As promised, the number of traffic fatalities and injuries decreased significantly. And due to Shuri's genius and foresight, the vibranium-powered engines were designed in such a way that they could not be dismantled and weaponized. There would be no curse attendant on this blessing.

As for Shuri's private life, the tabloids vomited out gallons of idiot ink about her and her alleged boy-toys. She was paired with actors, athletes, foreign princes, and, in one utterly bizarre story, with a retired security guard in Seattle who collected and exhaustively catalogued bus transfers. None of the stories ever mentioned Everett, or even alluded to her short-lived marriage. That was a mercy, but also rather galling in its own way. He'd been completely edited out of her life.

Everett followed her progress with more interest than he wished he felt. His eye was drawn to her name in print, her face in photos and videos. And if he wanted to break the arms of those actors and athletes, those foreign princes, and even the retired security guard, well, that was his lookout. The barristas who worked for him wondered why there were certain days when he snapped at them like an old grouch, but they never made the connection between his foul mood and the English language tabloids they found stuffed in the garbage.

In this way, three years passed.

* * *

And then he heard on the news that Princess Shuri of Wakanda was coming to Budapest.

He considered spending the week getting drunk in his apartment. The idea held a certain symmetrical appeal, since the last time he'd been drunk was the last day he'd spent with her. He also considered leaving for the week, flying to see his mother in Minneapolis, maybe, or hiking in the Scottish highlands. He also considered simply living his life as if it didn't matter where Shuri was. He had, after all, a new name and a new life. Even if he hadn't, he doubted she'd come looking.

So he stayed put

And so it came to pass that on the third night of Shuri's visit to Budapest, after he'd sent Magda and Jo home and was closing up the shop, Everett congratulated himself for being Shuri-proof. Iggy Pop's "Lust for Life" came on the radio. He cranked up the volume and sang along at the top of his voice as he wiped down the tables. The music was so loud that he didn't hear the bell on the door. "That's like hypnotizing chickens!" he bellowed with great feeling.

And then he saw her.

An incongruous, Brutalist tiara of blocky vibranium studded with raw quartz crystals that circled her topknot. A pair of tight, thigh-high leather boots a nearly metallic shade of teal, with kitten heels that were somehow even more sexually provocative than an ultra-high heel would have been. A faux fur jacket, snow white tipped with flame red, that fell mid-thigh. Big movie-star sunglasses, despite it being night. Flame-red lipstick to match her jacket.

Feeling like a fool, Everett shut off the radio. In all honesty, he'd imagined a thousand scenarios of meeting her again. This was not one of them.

"Istvan Nagy?" she asked, her voice piquant with irony. "You're a difficult man to find."

"I wasn't expecting to see you."

"Well," she said, taking off her sunglasses, "here I am anyway. I have just come from the opera."

" _Hunyadi László_?"

"Yes."

"What did you think of it?"

"I prefer what you were just playing. For that matter, I prefer your singing voice."

He laughed, feeling more a fool than before. "Thanks. I think. Make you a coffee?"

"Is it bad manners to ask for a Wiener Melange in Budapest?"

"I'll overlook it this time."

"Then a Wiener Melange, thank you."

"Please." He gestured to a table. "Sit down."

She sat and shrugged off her coat. Underneath it she wore a little silk slip dress, almost identical to the one he tore off her in Birnin Zana their first time, except that it was red ... the same shade of orange-red that she wore in her lab the first time he saw her. No waterfall of beads disguised her nipples. He looked away quickly and went to make her coffee.

"You look well," she said. "Your beard is very handsome."

"Thank you. You look well, too. How long are you here?"

"Until Tuesday. I am overseeing the opening of the new tech center at O.P.N.I. On Wednesday I'm touring the Nesibindi plant in Debrecen and then going back home. Speaking of which, is that your vehicle parked out front?"

"It is. I bought it second-hand last year from an expat going back to the States."

He brought her the cup of espresso on a saucer and a small glass of water, then went back for a bowl of sugar cubes.

"You should not have sent back the one I gave you."

He sat down opposite her. "That was a wedding present. You don't keep those after a divorce. As my mother would say, it ain't etiquette."

He watched as she dropped two sugar cubes into her melange. She stirred her coffee carefully. She didn't look at him. Perhaps she felt the situation to be as surreal as he did.

"You should not have lied to me," she said at last, still gazing into her coffee. "The noble idiot? So not a good look on you."

"Excuse me?" he said, feeling somewhat nettled.

She looked up at him. "You hurt me very badly."

"More badly than allowing you to live in exile?"

"That. That word. 'Allowing.' Who were you to 'allow?' As if I were a child, or an underling. You lied to me, and you hurt me, and I ought to hate you for it. I did for a while."

"Why did you stop?"

She sighed and rested her chin in her hand. "Oh, Everett. It was just so _exhausting_ to hate you."

He smiled sardonically. "You had better things to occupy your time?"

She gave a short laugh. "What do you think?"

"I've followed your career," he said. "You're doing incredible things. You're actually making the world a better place."

She sipped her melange. "So good. I'd forgotten how much I love these. You, too, are making the world a better place, one melange at a time."

"Gee, thanks," he said. "A man likes to have a purpose in life."

"Let us shake each other's hands in mutual congratulations," she said, holding out her hand. They shook. He didn't want to let her hand go. He did anyway.

"Why did you come here to see me?" he asked. She gazed at him in silence for some time. Then she shook her head, as if shaking off an unwelcome thought, and smiled.

"You told me, back then, that you had brought me to Budapest for a reason. You had something to show me, but you never got the chance."

"You came to see me for that?"

She shrugged. "It was something important to you, at least back then. I want to see what you had to show me. Tomorrow morning I have a bit of time."

"No, it's something you need to see at night."

"Would now do?"

"Yes."

"Then show me."

The two Dora Milaje who stood sentry outside the coffee house door came inside for coffee and cake, and to await their princess's return. Everett was glad Shuri didn't want them along. The thing he wanted to show her was too close to his heart to allow for witnesses. He threw on a coat and helped Shuri back into hers, and they went out and got on his Nesibindi. They rode smoothly through the streets of Budapest, Shuri's arms clasped about his waist, her head resting against his back. In five minutes they were at the foot of the Chain Bridge. Everett parked the Nesibidi and they got off.

"Do you trust me?" he asked her.

She looked at him askance. "Are you actually asking me that question?"

"There's a certain element of surprise involved in this. I need you to close your eyes and keep them closed until I tell you to open them. Can you do that?"

"Oh, all right," she said, in a tone of play exasperation.

"Then give me your arm and close your eyes. And keep them closed!"

She closed her eyes and he led her up the steps to the pedestrian walkway of the Chain Bridge. Auto traffic was light on the bridge, and the breeze from the Danube was cold. Yet along the bridge, lovers huddled together, walking, kissing, talking.

"All right?" he asked.

"Mmm."

"Good. Nearly there."

He took her to the center of the bridge, the halfway point between Buda and Pest, and turned her to face the Parliament Building.

"All right. Open your eyes."

She did. He watched her reaction closely as she took in the sight of the Parliament Building, its spires and dome ablaze with golden light, looking like a priceless jewel box on the bank of the Danube.

"How beauti-"

Her voice caught in her throat. She clutched the bridge railing with both hands and leaned forward. She had seen the birds. Lit by the same golden light that shone from below, that turned the buildings into burnished gold, they circled and circled the spiked dome like slow sparks from a fire, like dancing stars, like spirits.

"Oh," she said. Eyes wide and hungry, she watched the circling birds, and seemed unaware of the tears that slid down her face. Everett let out his breath. He lay one hand gently over Shuri's. She turned her palm up and linked her fingers with his, and held on tightly.

They watched the birds in silence for a long time. Then a passing pair of lovers bumped them by accident, and apologized, and continued on their way. Shuri looked at Everett. She drew his hand to her heart and held it there.

"I cried the first time I saw it, too," Everett said. "I'm not a crier, you know. Or maybe you don't."

"Thank you," Shuri said. "Thank you for showing me."

"Thank you for letting me."

She touched his face, his beard. "We are still married in Wakanda, you know," she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We are still married. You and I. In Wakanda, the ceremony of divorce involves cutting the rope of beads that the Priest of Bast used to bind us to each other. I have not cut the rope of beads. Therefore ..."

Everett sighed. "Now what the hell am I supposed to do with that piece of information?"

"Whatever you like," Shuri said. "You can do nothing with it and stay here as one of countless Istvan Nagys. Or you can come back with me and make me one perfect Wiener Melange every day. Stop. Did I say whatever you like? Allow me to amend. You may not use it to lie to me, including by omission, or to eavesdrop on me when you are supposed to be asleep, or to play the noble idiot."

"Shuri ..."

"It has been three years. The world is older and wiser now. So, I presume, are we. Can we please try to love each other without breaking each other's hearts this time?"

"The tribal council -"

"They, too, are older and wiser, individually and as a body. It happens. What can one say?"

"I need time to think this over."

"Of course," said Shuri. "In the meantime, I believe we are the only pair of lovers on this bridge who are not kissing each other. Are you able to think and kiss at the same time?

And Everett showed her that he was.


End file.
